Articles published in April, 2011

The Old Coot welcomes spring!

Published April 6, 2011

I started my “thirty-something” MG the other day. Old guys starting old cars is the true sign of spring, not the sighting of a robin. I had to charge up the battery first. Batteries always need a boost after a winter of stagnation. So do old coots. I used to take the battery out of the car and keep it in the house. Now, I let it sit in the cold and die. It’s easier to bend over and clip two wires to the terminals than it is to pick up 30 pounds of dead weight and duck walk it into the house. Besides, I burned my self out, lugging car batteries around when I was in my early twenties. I had an old Ford that refused to start in the winter unless I brought the battery in at night and kept it warm. I was sick of it by the end of that winter and the bad memory stayed with me. 

Anyhow, I charged the battery in the old MG, pulled out the choke and turned the key. It started right up. I eased in the choke a tad and took a quick spin around the block, in spite of the noticeable absence of license plates. By then the engine was warm, so I pushed the choke all the way in; the engine purred. It reminded me of the old joke about the woman who kept taking her car back to the dealer, complaining about terrible gas mileage. It was a mystery that remained unsolved until the mechanic watched her pull out of the garage with her pocketbook hanging on the choke knob. She thought it was a purse hanger

That doesn’t happen any more. The choke is off limits to us; it’s controlled by an automatic mechanism. I liked it better when we determined how rich to make the mixture of gas and air in the carburetor. Back when cars were tricky to start, back when cars had personality, when driving was an adventure. It still is with my old MG. I never know what it will do when I get behind the wheel. It’s moody. If you see me stopped by the side of the road with the bonnet (that’s what they call the hood, on English cars) up in the air, don’t stop to help me. I’m not fixing anything. I’m just talking to it, apologizing for giving it too much choke or pushing it too hard and begging for forgiveness. 

Old cars need a lot of that, talking to and begging. If you want them to do what you want, that is. It’s just like dealing with a “terrible” two-year-old. These old jalopies come from an era when drivers could fix their own cars. Everything was simpler. Now, the only fix I can execute on my modern car is to put a black piece of electrical tape over the “check engine” light. I don’t have a check engine light on my MG. When it wants some attention, it sends a cloud of steam out from under the hood, or stops running and stomps its feet all the way to the side of the road. That’s when it really puts me to the test, getting my old coot body unfolded, out of the cockpit and wobbling around to the engine like a newborn colt gaining its feet for the first time. Usually, I put on a pair of sunglasses before I extract myself, thinking a “cool” look will distract passing cars from noticing my lack of flexibility. It never works. I hear their yells out their side window, “Get that junk heap off the road, you old coot!” Yes! Spring is here!

The Old Coot cleans his plate. Almost!

Published April 13, 2011

We all have them. Extra pounds! We all know why – we like to eat: snack, nibble, nosh, dine, sup, graze, inhale, gobble, sip, slurp and guzzle.  And, we don’t move! The entire household goes into a panic when the TV remote gets lost. “Get up and walk over to the TV to change the channel?” No Way! It’s beyond our capability. We scour the house looking for it, and then rush to the store to buy a universal remote. We never spot it over by the treadmill and the exercise bike in the corner of the room; we don’t go to that corner of the room. 

Now, the scientists have gotten in the game. It’s the new “Manhattan” project. Instead of rushing to make an atomic bomb, they are rushing to find a cure for obesity. Two of them were on Public Radio the other day, blabbing about their latest studies. You’ll be happy to know, those extra pounds are not your fault. Doctor Alan Greene of Stanford University School of Medicine blames it on your mother.  It’s her fault! If she fed you baby cereal made with white rice, then that’s why you’re fat. Especially, if the gooey pabulum crossed your lips before you were four months old. He’s on a “White Out” campaign. He says we’ll stamp out obesity, if we stamp out white rice baby cereal.

Professor Hannah Gardner, an epidemiologist at the University of Miami disagrees. She surveyed a slew of regular people, fat people and very fat people. And, solved the mystery. A much higher percentage of the fat and very fat people drink diet soda.  She concludes that it’s diet soda that’s makes them fat. That’s when I started yelling at the radio. Usually it’s the TV.  “Duh!” I yelled at Hannah, “Did you ever think that fat and very fat people drink diet soda to lose weight. That diet soda is the result, not the cause?” She didn’t answer. They never do.

I have my own theory. And a cure. I blame our mothers, just like Doctor Greene does. Not because of the baby cereal they fed us, but because of the “clean your plate” rules. I was brought up with them. Everyone from my era was. Most kids still are. We heard it in all its forms in my day: “You can’t leave the table until your plate is clean!” – “No dessert until you finish everything on your plate!” -  “Eat up and stop complaining, those poor starving children in China would love to have a plate full of food like yours.” So we did! And, do! It’s ingrained in our heads.

But, it’s time for a change; time to leave something on our plates. We’re overweight. We’re fat. We’re obese. We’re killing ourselves. And, it’s the clean plate philosophy that’s doing it. It’s not easy, to leave something on your plate. I started with my favorite, a big juicy hamburger on a toasted bun topped with the works. I vowed to leave half of it behind. I ate slower than usual. I was sad, “Half a burger?” Could I forgo nature’s perfect food? I munched my way through the first half and sat back. It beckoned, “One more bite.” I looked away but it pulled me back and I caved. I took a bite, reduced it to one fourth of a burger plus a little. The math got to me. I needed to even it up, make it exactly one fourth, so I took another nibble.

It was a start. I left something on my plate. Not as much as I planned, but still, one-eighth of a burger was something (Yes, I took another bite as I got up from the table). Now, it’s my mantra. I leave something on my plate every time I eat. It gets me into a lot of trouble. “You’re not going to finish? Is something wrong with my meatloaf?” Then comes the old lecture, the “clean plate” one. You get all of it except the part about the poor starving children in China. They aren’t starving anymore. (Never were). I’m planning to put my “leave something on your plate” diet into book form. It will be more famous than the Atkins’ diet. You start my diet small; leave behind 1/16 of your burger, like I did (Ok, so I came back for yet another bite) and then leave a little more on the plate each week. Before long, we’ll be a fraction of the size we are now. We just have to defy our mothers!

The Old Coot pulls back the curtain!

Published April 20, 2011

Network TV executives should buy some more cameras for the news team. It doesn’t matter which station you watch, they all have the same problem – lack of footage. The same film clip is repeated, hour after hour, day after day: The uprising in Libya, the earthquake in Japan, the latest rantings of Charlie Sheen, the images get drilled into our heads. It’s as stale and tiring as an old coot giving an update on his latest physical ailment. (By the way, my knee thing is back again.)

It wouldn’t cost the networks much money to get a few more cameras. They could even buy a bunch of the new, miniature digital camcorders. They only cost $100 and are nearly as good as professional equipment costing thousands of dollars more. And, the “cameraman” wouldn’t have to be a weight lifter to lug the equipment around. Even an unfit old coot could do it. Even one with a bum knee. Have I mentioned that it came back?

So why don’t they get more cameras and stop the endless stream of repeating filmstrips? It’s because they’re faking it! Like the wizard did, in the Wizard of Oz. There is nothing behind the curtain, just a DVD player. A camera person went to the scene, got some quick footage and left. The news staff (a single reporter back in the studio) keeps up to date with the story via rumors on Facebook and Twitter and goes on the air with the same filmstrip as a backdrop.

We are made to believe there is a whole team of news people on the job. But, it’s just a pretty face (male or female) in the studio and a videographer with a wad of bus tickets, traveling from one disaster to another. Politicians do the same thing; they fake it; they rush to the scene, shove aside the people doing the work, smile into the camera and tell us they have the situation well in hand. There is nothing behind their curtain either.    

We should get in the game, fake it right back - turn on the TV - put a blow-up doll on the couch next to the dog and go for a walk. We’d be healthier and just as well informed. More so, if we bought a newspaper along the way. Then we’d get the real story, the in-depth story. A lot better than an endless stream of repeating filmstrips. My sore knee would probably go away too; I wouldn’t have to mention it so often.

The Old Coot explains the “knee” generation

Published April 27, 2011

Children of “baby boomers” are often referred to as the “me” generation. “I want it all and I want it right now!” But, I think it would be more accurate to call them the “knee” generation. That’s what dominates their conversations. My crowd, the old coot generation, have knee issues, but we’re not obsessed with them the way the knee generation is. Our knees creek, grown, snap, ache and “kill” every once in a while. We wait it out, and eventually it goes away.

But, not the knee generation. They are experts on the joint between the femur and the tibia. Just listen in on one of their conversations sometime. Unlike old coots who simply say, “My knee hurts.” The knee generation gets technical – “What’s your problem? Is it the meniscus, the MCL, LCL, ACL?” – “I don’t know; I’m scheduled for an MRI next week. That’s a lot of “alphabet” talk, the kind that sends me searching for my old Anatomy textbook.  

I think they exasperate their condition by studying it. They get “symptom” disease. It’s a medical condition that usually affects medical students. When they study heart disease they think the next twitch in their chest is a heart attack. The next headache is a brain tumor. Every mole is skin cancer. The more they study, the sicker they get. We all suffer from symptom disease to some degree. The pharmaceutical industry exploits our susceptibility by flooding the airways with a list of symptoms we might be experiencing, and then trot out a magic pill that promises a cure (along with some interesting side effects). “Just ask your doctor,” they say in closure. They have us right where they want us. (Our wallets too!)

If your knee is sore, don’t discuss it with a knee generation person. They will ask about the condition of your meniscus, your medial and anterior collateral ligaments too. Get up and leave! If you don’t, they’ll convince you that surgery is the only answer. Oh sure, some people, like my friends Kim and Karen, who recently had their knees taken apart, really do require surgical correction. Usually, after years of dealing with a chronic condition. But, many people get caught up in the science, fall victim to symptom disease and go under the knife. Knee surgery has become a status symbol for the knee generation, and it introduces a whole new line of conversation that starts with, "Who did yours?”

The knee is a marvelous, flexible joint, but it gets mad when we mistreat it. And, it lets us know. Ouch! Old coots know this better than anyone. We don’t know if it hurts because of the ACL, MCL or one of the other components. We do know how to use it to get out of yard work and other onerous chores. That may not makes us knee generation people, but it does make us knee specialists!

I walk the mail

I took the mail for a walk the other day. I slipped three envelopes into my coat pocket and headed out the door to town. My first stop was at the Goat Boy coffee bar. It's a great place to start the day, to get the pulse of the village.

I wasn't exactly asked to leave, but I could tell by the look the waitress gave me that hogging a booth for an hour while nursing a two dollar coffee was pushing my welcome to the limit, especially with a line of customers backed up to the front door. I took the hint and moved on; the mail in my pocket was a dim memory.

I walked along Front Street past the new bridge to Dunkin Donuts. I was hoping to bump into Bill Nolis, the owner. He's usually all ramped up about something or other and his enthusiasm is contagious. I needed some of it to recharge my batteries. It works even better than the caffeine that comes in his coffee. He wasn’t around so I picked up a large coffee-to-go and left. I passed by the Viet Nam Memorial in front of the Court House like I used to do every Sunday morning. Sixteen local boys lost their lives in that war. I didn't know any of them, but I memorized their names a few years back. I thought it was the least I could do. It could have been me; I had a one-A classification in the 1960’s, but lucked out and didn't get drafted. Anyhow, I've come to know these guys in a way, by reciting their names every time I pass by and then looking at the monument to make sure I remembered them all.

I arrived back home 20 minutes later with an idea for an old coot article that was clinging precariously to the edge of my taxed memory system. I needed to jot it down fast before it escaped. As I hung up my coat I noticed the letters in my pocket. My wife yelled out from the other room, "Did you mail the bills?"

"Not yet," I replied (out loud), and then quietly, under my breath, "I took them for a walk instead." 

The goodbye process.

When to say goodbye?

When does goodbye mean goodbye? It depends on who you ask. We had a party the other day. It gave me a wonderful opportunity to observe my favorite skirmish in the unending battle of the sexes - the confusion over the meaning of goodbye. It starts when SHE says, “We’re going home now.”

And, it is the wife who decides when a couple will go home. We husbands think we do, but it’s a delusion, even though we start a campaign to leave the minute we get there. “Give me a nod when you’re ready to leave, Honey,” we whisper, in an attempt to plant the seed. If the truth were known, men work on an escape plan before they even get there. The exit strategy begins when they’re getting dressed, something they’ve been ordered to do, after being told that a stained T-shirt and a pair of wrinkled khakis are inappropriate party attire.

No, men don’t make the decision to leave. We whine; we beg; we conjure up tales of horror that will unfold if we don’t go home soon - traffic jams, deer jumping onto the path of the car, or mechanical breakdowns in the dark. Eventually our wives tire of the battle and announce that it is now time to leave. Unfortunately, that is the signal for the battle of the sexes to commence. Men think that, “We’re going now,” means finding the host and hostess, saying thank-you and going out the door. It doesn’t. For men, good-bye is an event, for women, it is a process. And no matter how many times we go through it, we never figure it out. We’re out in the car with the motor running, but our wives are just in the early phase of leaving. We sit and listen to a boring sports talk show on the radio for 5 minutes before we realize she isn’t coming out any time soon.

We leave the car running for our first trip back inside, foolishly thinking we’ll soon be on our way. We find our wife and hover by her side, like a toddler clinging to his mother’s skirt. We listen intently to the conversation; anxiously awaiting the words that will signal the end is near. The words never come. We have to butt in and recap the horrors that await us if we don’t leave this second. That gets us a look, but not any movement toward the door. The conversation continues until we fall to the floor, kicking and screaming. Our wives respond by finally saying to the person she is taking to, “We really have to get going.” Upon hearing those magic words, we head back to the car, expecting to get underway. We are wrong!

We turn off the engine for our second trip back into the house. We have no optimism. It’s a walk of defeat, a march of tears. We find our wives closer to the door, but still with a queue of 10 or more exit interviews between her and freedom. We stand at her side, this time like a secret service agent escorting the first lady at a wedding reception. We nudge people aside to clear a path, but add nothing to the conversation. We’re the ultimate invisible men. Eventually we make it through the “good-bye” process. It’s quite a scene, a room full of women engaged in animated conversation, each with an antsy adult-child at her side. Eventually the door is reached. She is finally ready to go; the 20 minute good-bye process is over, but the slug she came with is nowhere to be found. He’s wandered into the den with the rest of the husbands to watch the last minute of a double overtime game. It doesn’t matter if it’s football, basketball or celebrity wrestling. He wants to see the finish. “I’ll be just a minute honey,” he says, not having a clue that he just restarted the goodbye process.

Car horns are lacking.

I need a user friendly car horn.

I was driving down the street minding my own business the other day, well, that's not exactly true; I never mind my own business, but anyhow, I was tooling along when I saw two neighbors, Jean and Dee Dee, walking their dog. They waved and I blew the horn. But the horn didn't make a sound. I didn't push it hard enough. I tried again, but nothing happened. Then it finally worked, half a block away where a young woman was pushing a baby carriage. She gave me a dirty look and hustled up the street to get away from the "jerk" blowing his horn at her. This happens to me all the time. The horns on today's cars are dangerous and rude.

I guess it's because the button sits on top of the airbag. When you want to push the horn you have to shove the whole airbag mechanism to make contact with the horn circuit. You can't give it a gentle tap. You can’t toot a friendly hello; you have to slam your hand down and blast the horn. It’s why we have road rage in this country. It's not due to stress in people's lives; it's due to the crappy horns that the automakers install on our vehicles. Blaring horns make people mad.

They don't have road rage in Europe; they don't have it in the Caribbean. I've never been to Europe, but I've been to several of the Caribbean Islands and I can attest to the lack of road rage there. They have good horns on their cars, the kind that can give a friendly toot, and they use them all the time. All it takes is one cab ride to get the picture. The driver toots as he pulls out - toots as he approaches another car - toots when he turns - waves and toots when he asks to be let in at a busy corner. The horn is a friendly device in the Caribbean. It's the same way in Europe. They wear out their horns; we wear out our brakes.

I'm thinking of installing an auxiliary horn on my car. I'll put the button on the dash, next to the radio. I'm good at finding the volume knob while I'm driving. I crank it up when a Ricky Nelson song comes on. I shouldn't have any problem finding a horn button mounted right next to it. Then I'll be a friendly “Caribbean” driver, not a rude American. I'll be out there tooting to my friends, giving old fogies a gentle reminder that it's OK to go right on red. I did this to my father's car when I was a teenager, except I put the button under the dash so he wouldn't notice it, and mounted a giant truck horn in the engine compartment. I used it to scare people, in the true spirit of a teenage idiot. The horn became history the day I blew it while my father had his head under the hood. I just couldn't help myself. I wanted to see if the old man could dance. He could. He waltzed me out of the car and stood watch while I dismantled the modification to his prized Edsel.

 

Old Coot avoids the "UM" People!

Watch out for the Um people.    

I was studying the “Um” people the other day. You know the type. They wait in line, staring at the racks of donuts in Dunkin Donuts or the extensive menu at a fast food joint, but when their turn comes, they are dumfounded. The clerk says, “How may I help you?” They reply with, “Um.” They tap their index finger on their chin and repeat it again, “Um.” Finally, they get started. “Give me two jelly.” That’s followed with another, “Um.” All through the selection process their dialog is interspaced with ums. That’s why I call them the Um people. They’re never prepared for the task at hand. When the exasperated clerk finally gets their order together and says, “That will be seven dollars and sixty-eight cents,” they shift right back into the um mode, as in, “Um, where did I put my wallet?” Everything that comes their way is a shock. We all do this from time to time, but the Um people never get out of the groove.

Old coots are the exact opposite of Um people. We know what donuts we’ll order before we leave the house. We come prepared for line situations. We know what it will cost; we have our money ready. We make the exchange, accept the, “Have a good day,” and step out of the way. Like customers of the “Soup Nazi” on the Seinfeld TV show, we are obedient, compliant and unobtrusive. We do this because we hate lines. It’s why we go to dinner at four o’clock in the afternoon; we don’t want to wait for a table. It’s an ailment that affects all old coots. It’s incurable. It’s limiting. And, it’s why we so dislike Um people.  

Our line-phobia is a handicap, that’s for sure, but it does have its good points. It’s made us into experts on line behavior. We don’t get in lines that take over five minutes. We sit off to the side and study the dynamics of the people that do. It’s how I first detected the existence of the Um people. I love to watch them in line at a donut store, and even more at a deli, ordering a sub. They are overwhelmed by the number of choices, the number of decisions that they are forced to make. First, they have to select the size, six inch or one foot. That’s good for two or three ums. Then they are confronted with a bread selection - hearty Italian, whole wheat, white, etc. That’s good for another few ums. This is when I swivel in my chair to get a full view of the Um symphony. The choices of meat, cheese, vegetables and garnishes are endless. The crescendo of ums is deafening. The fatal blow comes when the clerk offers a final option, “Would you like that toasted?” That does it; the Um person’s brain reaches overload. He runs out of the store, waving his hands in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs. It’s what I’ve been waiting for. The clerk looks over to me and asks if I want a free sub. “Um,” I reply. “What are my choices?”

Old coot clothes last forever

I buy stuff for a lifetime.

The other day my son was getting ready for school. He was trying to squeeze into an old pair of sneakers, but not having much luck getting his size 7 foot into his size 5 sneaker. I asked him why he was wearing those old things; he has at least three newer pairs.

“They’re my favorite. I just found them in the back of my closet while I was looking for something.”

I loosened up the laces for him, starting at the bottom, and somehow, he managed to get them on. He was smiling and happy, as though he rediscovered an old friend, which he had. We all have clothes like that. Things we just love. They feel right. They make us feel good about ourselves. Usually my wife won’t let me wear mine.

“How old are those things?” I asked him.

“Mom bought them last summer. They’re almost a year old.”

It started me thinking. “He thinks sneakers he got a year ago are old. Wait till he gets to be my age, then he’ll know what old clothes really are.” I looked down at the sweater I had on. It’s dark blue, has a yellow X across the front, red, white & blue nautical flags on each side, the word “navigator” sweeps in a white arch across the chest area and the left sleeve has yellow & red anchor on it. It’s 100% cotton. My daughter Amy bought it for herself at a Tommy Hilfiger outlet store when she was a freshman in college. She gave it too me after months of looking for it and finding it hidden in my bottom dresser drawer under three layers of sweaters and sweatshirts. That was eight years ago.

Next, I looked down at my feet. I had on a pair of “dusty bucks.” I bought them in Maine, on a trip I took, six years ago. I started to realize that all my “stuff” was ancient. “Hell, I’ve got boxer shorts older than my son.”

I’m not an old coot who wears the same thing everyday, a fashion flashback to the past. Well maybe a little, but I do buy new clothes every year. Everything I have on, as I write this, is less than six months old, except for my sneakers. They’ve become an old friend that I save for when I go for a speed walk or a run. I’ve had them for three years and I suspect they will be around for a few more. Yet, I guess, that a chronological inventory of my wardrobe would be like a walk through history.

I own a pair of LL Bean rubber boots that I bought in 1987. They get a ride on my feet when it snows and I have to shovel the driveway and sidewalk, but not more often than that. They look brand new, which they are, in old coot years, so I expect to have them as long as I live. And that’s the point. Most of what I buy will be a lifetime purchase. That thought hits me like a sledgehammer, but it’s true. I’m not outgrowing anything, though if I don’t get my willpower under control when facing a Sunday night pizza, I might need something new; something with an elastic waistband. I don’t wear anything out anymore, and a lot of stuff, like suits, ties and dress shirts, are seldom worn, so why replace them? The linen suit I bought for my daughter Wendy’s wedding nine years ago, has been out of the closet on only three occasions. The tux next to it gets an airing once a year, on a cruise, though last year I left it home. All my closet “friends” are like that. They will be with me till I die, even though I expect that event to be delayed till I’m well over 100. Old coots never die. They don’t even fade away. They just hang around forever wearing 30-year-old oxford cloth button down collar shirts, pleated kakis, loafers or buck shoes, yellow rain coats, black overcoats and never a hat, having learned from, and been inspired by John F Kennedy, the first president to attend his inauguration ceremony, bareheaded.

I’d better be careful about what I buy. It’s going to last me a lifetime

Don't blow your brains out!

Old Coots know how to beat the heat!

Every time there is a hot spell a flock of “experts” swarm to the media to offer advice on keeping cool. Some are global warming advocates, trying to cut down on green house gasses. Some are good Samaritans, trying to make sure the elderly and the very young don’t suffer when the temperature soars. The cat and dog people step in with their advice too. Us old coots get a chuckle every time the weather advisors take the stage. Our society can’t deal with the environment anymore. We’ve been spoiled by air conditioning. It’s everywhere: in our cars, our homes and the places where we shop, dine and work. We’ve lost the ability to cope with summer. When we were kids in the good old days we got a drink from a hose, not from a bottle of chilled water from France. Our parents warned us when we did, “Be careful. Don’t blow your brains out!” Of course it never worked. We’d put the hose in our mouth and trust our friends to turn it on gradually. They never did; they always cranked it up full blast. It’s why my generation is so dumb. We blew our brains out getting a drink from a hose.

It was a lot harder keeping cool in those days. People didn’t have air conditioning in their houses or pools in their back yards, except for those metal framed, canvas, kiddy ones that were one-foot deep. We didn’t care that our legs hung over the side; we’d lie down in the tepid water and pretend we were swimming at the lake. It wasn’t too exciting but it cooled us off. It didn’t take much to entertain a bunch of kids who had blown their brains.We’d spend hours running around under the sprinkler and taking turns soaking each other with a hose, a pail of water or squirt guns, the kind that had to be refilled after about ten squirts. We would have killed for one of the half-gallon soakers that today’s kids have at their disposal. When we got older, we rode our bikes to one of the public pools. My favorite was the First Ward pool, the one behind the Ansco Film plant. It cost thirty-five cents to get in. If you turned in your locker key on the way out, you got a quarter back. Mine never made it past Lamb’s Ice Cream Parlor on Clinton Street.

You had to learn to sleep “hot” in those days. Sleeping “hot” was an art. You had to fluff up the sheet just right so it didn’t cling to your skin and you had to turn your pillow over every half hour to get to the cool side. You never fell into a deep sleep on a hot night in those days. You just made the best of it. I had a fan in my room, but only if I could sneak it up the stairs without my parents noticing. It was a "droner." It sounded like a small airplane coming in for a landing. The blades were metal and could nip off the end of your fingers if you weren’t careful. Those were the days before manufacturers were required to child proof everything. Those were the days when parents taught children to keep their fingers out of the fan. It was a wonderful device. The drone lulled me to sleep and the rotating mechanism alternated between cool blasts of air and dead still heat. It was the variety that made it feel so good.  

We may not have had air conditioning when I was a kid but we had something better, Kool-Aid. Nothing was quite as satisfying as a glass of frosty Kool-Aid on a dog day afternoon. Especially the way we made it, with a full cup of sugar, two if mom wasn’t watching. A lot of folks had a back porch in those days, the lucky ones, that is. It was a perfect place to slumber on a narrow cot or a hired man’s bed on a hot night. People bragged if they had a sleeping porch, like they do today if they have central air. We didn’t need “experts” to tell us how to cope with the weather. Ours was a self-reliant society. We even figured out that a hot drink on a sweltering day made us feel cooler. It didn’t take a scientist on TV with an anatomy chart to convince us. We didn’t watch the “Discovery” channel; we discovered things for ourselves. We didn’t complain about hot weather. It was what we waited for all winter. It’s why you see us old coots all over the place when the temperature heats up. We enjoy the heat. We don’t know any better; we blew our brains out getting a drink from a hose when we were kids!